Finger's spread through walls
licking the green fear
a moist mayhem spreading onto my chest
chewing the dead society
people give names to my existence
a continous dreary process
I feel oblong and circular
shouts rummaging through the ceiling
fire in my neck,
movements occur as pulse
during the time curtain of this thought
who am I?
A passage or a full stop-
a dreamlike stay
a touch
a vapour
mud..earth..mud..earth.
The mind stays softer, mine
like sweaters in summers,
fresh tangerine juice.
Who am I?
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If you love reading my poems and works you might enjoy my book Crimson Skins. I can’t believe it has been an year since my book published and each time I hold my baby, I am choked with pride. You can get your copies on Kindle, Amazon, Pothi etc.
sharing links-
Crimson skins – US
Crimson Skins- POTHI
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You- a nectar of the moon, gliding through the gleaming sheets of orange moans atop my waist that slips through your feet and a long stare- a reverie of blooming seasons horizontal touches of galaxy,
A walnut cracks open, a fidget through the bones
a sweet summer song- soil, soil,soil I see raindrops through my belly, now- a grasshopper twirling through the toes you- a carrier of everything that my eyes sews my body that wraps underneath.
If you love reading my poems and works you might enjoy my book Crimson Skins. I can’t believe it has been an year since my book published and each time I hold my baby, I am choked with pride. You can get your copies on Kindle, Amazon, Pothi etc.
the rivers that speak of us,
warmer bodies
nectars of jasmine and hibiscus-
a lady from photograph,
biting a strange loneliness sitting onto her bosom
a strange memory of distilled longings-
a lady that sulks and pronounce everything watery,
dreams of wildfire and river-beds
I travel through her caricature,
her oblong drifting fingers,
eyes of pain and despair-
eyes- a mirage of limbs too,
I watch her and think of this pregnant sky
day and night.
She- a soliloquy od soft pastel dreams.
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Read the newest newsletter here-
https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul
Longings
My days are cryptic
with mellow songs
sunflowers pressed on my bosom,
on my chest.
My days are usually full of lies and loneliness
with a wildflower travelling through my veins,
Where a mind refuses to sleep,
a haunted manor of poetry painted carpets
a garden of lover’s daydream
At sunsets I visit temples,
where my sins could fade away a little
along with the leaves of my hope
along with the tree that grew along with me.
I sometimes wish to marry that tree of hope,
the one that nurtured the oblivious lips of dull moon,
filling it with moonflowers
filling with hanging creases of paper lanterns,
a fading memory wilt often.
Somehow
Somewhere
Where my body trembles like a low music,
a sister’s ritual of love affairs:
I am not sure what do I long the most
the memories or the moments?
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Please checkout my collection- Crimson Skins now on Amazon, Pothi and kindle. It will mean a lot to me.
Crimson skins – USCrimson Skins- POTHI
If I could, I would evaporate through your mouth a doorawy to dreams and tiny dots- wild mushrooms dancing atop our bodies as if we have trapped the moon in our eyelids- eyelids that do not utter a word, flowers on terrace, static noises we scratch water with nails, dirt on our palms to know the film of our memory floating in the lake through breasts, heaviness and Autumn that still looks upon us and smile. smile to see us vacant and full, altogether. An awakening of God's music temple bells- gongs negating everything else/ but this stays this blooms.
It’s about us. Our static atmosphere which keeps changing its dimension. Through the clandestine mouths of river and a dark cloud. At times, there is nothing but a tainted shadow our love growing a thick layer of fungus. We grow, anyway.
We grow and talk about the leftover meals, the swollen flowers of our garden, everything falling apart. Hush! We do not speak of the silence that lingers our throat sitting like a huge wound on our chest. The sad, forlorn shackles of stark grief. What goes beyond is treacherous, as if. A landscape dipped in the shades of sunsets and piquant feelings, a leaf coiling into a serpent. A flower wilting into a moth, things happen, just like that.
The screams are a reflection of an unslept sky. The dying women in neighbours. The abhorrence that is a moisture to the nature. Nature- it often mocks our grilled love and considers it a green fever. We grow anyway. We grow through the carcass, a catastrophe of splitted existence. Through kitchen sinks, chairs and through people, we grow like melted wax. A sharp body shedding its skin through and through.
Please checkout my collection- Crimson Skins now on Amazon, Pothi and kindle. It will mean a lot to me.
The collarbone cracks open,
a petal of your name,
a thick cloud of lust
sounds that speak only of splitted grass
I see you
and I think oh 'home'
honey-suckled touch,
tongues:
tongues interwined into sheets of desire
of lukewarm, misted talks
about us and hopes to stay.
It is Summer now,
a season of orange hope,
golden grass grinning through the wind.
It is Summer.
I am inhabitated by the scent of it
that twirls my skin and turn it into faces of love.
I am a Summer-myself
bleeding through my cold sphere
daylight:
water on my toes
a gossip you all want to hear.
I am Summer for you-
for you to cling onto
for you to breathe the scent.
I am stoked to announce that recently Indie Blu(e) Published its another beautiful anthology Through the Looking Glass– which includes my poem about Mental Health as the theme was the same. I urge you all to check out the same here .
Have you read Crimson Skins yet?
If not please check it out on Kindke, Pothi, Amazon etc.
Hi, Welcome to my poetry world yet again. I guess we all have no better solution rather than staying positive and hopeful. I am glad to feel this positive vibe yet again after all that India has been through and is still dealing. I am trying to do as much as I can and that includes taking care of my mental health as well.
Sharing a poem. Let me know your views and in general how life has been treating you all?:)
And maybe this shall never end-
Here, I rest my palms along with the stars,
honey-suckled,
twigs of sunsets
hoping for tree of wishes
a spoon of lukewarm winters
which sits beside my small mind
a roar of summer breeze,
producing so much that only my heart can see,
and maybe this shall never end-
yet I long for coral sweaters,
grass
attachment layered sky
above and below-
the dreamcatchers
in the grainy rain.
Our mouths unravelling
and spitting a tongue of hibiscus growing
scrubbing:
scrubbing all the sins away
lights spinning- gold,
poppies in a bathtub
and leaves fluttering across our bodies-
we want this,
a human touch
a human being, indeed.
If you love reading my poems and works you might enjoy my book Crimson Skins. I can’t believe it is soon going to be an year for my book and each time I hold my baby, I am choked with pride. You can get your copies on Kindle, Amazon, Pothi etc.
How much is too much?
Inosculate, squalid words on your sheet
the layers that speak of my heavy mind
are supposed to be easy to ingest?
How?
The air is as pellucid as my eye of misery.
but the words do not stop here
the words do not stick just to the head
there is death occurring these days
enough for me to write a lament
a lament about this stomach
this body
this hour of existence.
the hour that speaks of loss
survival requires prayer hope and warriors
who are we, I ask?
the sufferers or the healers?
The syntax is an old odium
I refuse this hour
I refuse the way you swallow my poetry
my half- burnt mind is my solace and a tragedy.
Disintegrated shreds of light.
Hi! The rise in the pandemic cases especially in India , in my city have taken a serious toll on my metal health and I am sure it is equally bad for the rest. This poem comes out from a place pain, misery. Thank you for reading.
Generally I would attach a link to my book, etc..but I do not feel right now so you can ignore.
I am quiet too often like the empty hallways, humming a song already forgotten with a tilting toe towards the sun a sigh: pink fingers dipped in pain a sigh: pink fingers dipped in hallucination there is a staircase now falling beneath my parting head half towards left, half towards right days whistling on sea waves about my country in flames, about my city in illusions
watching a cloud things fall under the feet now a complete loss of sense tiny leaflets fluttering
green songs that reflect nothing. the survival becomes a pungent smell often with absent glares and a blue sea that is a part of my dream.
My poetry collection is receiving all the love for which I am truly thankful to each one who supported it. I produced my book out of pain, love, despair. Hope you like it too. Links can be checked out here-
I know of a lady in white with a mouth full of promises, spreading a nocturnal path of flowers, like a longed kiss above the eye, a lady that slips in my chest, within the small rim of my fist, a sniff so wild, a mouth that dwells on mountains moist. a lady with a potato peel, with cardigans and wool on her mahogany table, entangled like dust in her bun, mouth covered with layers of smiles and powder, a moment of purple sanity, a lady in white that lives in a suburban city, with marigolds just in her eyes. —————————————————————
Find my published collection Crimson Skins worldwide.
I am more than thrilled to announce that my second collection of poems will be soon released this year. “Crimson Skins” deals with life journey, loss, isolation, etc. I have stayed honest throughout my poems and this took almost all of my energy. If you are fond of my writing style I urge you to keep your eyes wide open for it. This book is an outcome of my 1.5 years of sweat, tears, and ink.
I hope you all stay excited as I publish this book with Indie Blu(e) Publishing. This amazing book cover has been designed by my talented friend and artist Henna Johansdotter.
Thank you for always reading my work on WordPress. My love for you all will always be huge. Though it would mean a lot if you can subscribe to my tiny letter newsletter. I would be sharing some beautifully curated poetry of some great poets/ articles/ artworks and it shall also have insights into my work at your mailbox.
You won’t be disappointed.
You just have to subscribe to the mailbox and you can enjoy different poetries while sipping on your favourite tea and maybe anytime you wish to read. I still will be hanging onto my this platform along with my Instagram, twitter handle.
Night breaks apart like thousand skies on Earth
with a hint of mauvish whisper
the whisper spills everywhere
enveloping things around me.
Dreams create illusion of being permanent
of sticking to the odd times
with a mayhem stuck to the air.
You would wish to sit and digest
each tiny aspect of dreams
with a mind of a spider
trying to decode the methods
but you would end up missing on your pills.
It does not matter
anymore
the warm shade of conclusions
till the time your hands are rooted in the soil
till the time you hands feel the pain,
yellow or orange.
There is something to change the blood into passion,
dreams that becomes nightmares
colours that become a chalice of poison.
It does not matter.
If you wish to receive newsletters related to hope, poetry, faith on mundane days
try subscribing to my newsletter. You won’t be disappointed!:) https://tinyletter.com/my_valiant_soul
I do not need a bowl of salvation
for i see people dying each day
the walls of fragile mind
separating recklessly.
Florals of weak mind abstain from blooming
as it was never a state of peace.
As I write this poetry
I weep
I weep thinking of my existence
of the silences that creates a hue of colourless Sun.
I sink
thinking about the old moments
where conversations were simple
conversations made of pink wool
of memories and hands.
These days i imagine a single strand of grass
infused into the tunnel of my thin skin
to sit and spread a smell that wipes
things so small
things full of cold elements.
The body is driven mad
by the sight of people now
failing to comprehend the existence of things so bright.
I have a body now
that refuses to walk
a body so cold
a lifeless abstract piece of art.
(written after all that is happening around the world. I feel terrible.)
Night breaks apart like thousand skies on Earth
with a hint of mauvish whisper
the whisper spills everywhere
enveloping things around me.
Dreams create illusion of being permanent
of sticking to the odd times
with a mayhem stuck to the air.
You would wish to sit and digest
each tiny aspect of dreams
with a mind of a spider
trying to decode the methods
but you would end up missing on your pills.
It does not matter
anymore
the warm shade of conclusions
till the time your hands are rooted in the soil
till the time you hands feel the pain,
yellow or orange.
There is something to change the blood into passion,
dreams that becomes nightmares
colours that become a chalice of poison.
It does not matter.
MY VALIANT SOUL 
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